


Lime Burgundy Grey

by halotolerant



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Arguing, Cannibalism, Cooking, Curtain Fic, Kitchen Sex, M/M, Oral Sex, Violent Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-09
Updated: 2016-02-09
Packaged: 2018-05-19 08:45:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,204
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5961229
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/halotolerant/pseuds/halotolerant
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I’m going to need your help tomorrow, by the way,” Will had remarked, a few minutes earlier, absently chatting whilst zesting the fruit for his Key lime pie. “With the tile laying."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lime Burgundy Grey

**Author's Note:**

> For the 'Color Palette Challenge' which involved picking 3 colours for the basis of a fic 100-1500 words

The little green curls crush under Will’s grasping hands as he clings for balance at the granite counter-top, their juice stinging in the microscopic abrasions to his skin from a day’s work on the house. 

They got the kitchen fixed up first, naturally, and the bedroom is comfortable and clean if not fully furnished, but there’s much more to do; a modest library, a dining room, the remodeling of the shower...

“I’m going to need your help tomorrow, by the way,” Will had remarked, a few minutes earlier, absently chatting whilst zesting the fruit for his Key lime pie. “With the tile laying." 

Hannibal had already been in a poor mood. He would - he had said - accept that the pie was ‘a traditional dessert in the culture in which Will had been raised’, and that it might be ‘acceptable enough’ in small servings, and how about miniature caramelized lime slices with an oyster shell of Italian meringue and a very delicate custard? 

Will had held his gaze unflinchingly, and got out the pie dish and the tin of condensed milk. 

He’d never cared too much about cooking, in previous lives, beyond something that would be pleasant, filling and ideally healthful for himself or - later - his family. Now cooking is a kind of tug of war, or perhaps a sort of sport with an erotic twist, like hot oil bikini wrestling. Although goodness knows that must be hard work. 

Cooking with Hannibal is hard work, come to that. 

At Will’s question, Hannibal had detached himself from passive-aggressively micro-measuring the ingredients for a boeuf bourguignon that will use up the remainder of a door-to-door scam artist who most inadvisably tried to come in ‘to read the meter’ and who Will has yet to finish entirely cleaning out of the corners of the utility-room-to-be. Hannibal had crossed the space between hob and the kitchen island where Will is working, and managed to make the act of sipping his glass of red wine into an intimation of extreme displeasure. 

“I do not like the smell of the adhesive material. It gives me the migraine.”

Will paused and put his hand on his hip. “I have literally seen you dissolve a person in a bucket of chemicals, but you can’t help me lay less than six square foot of tile?”

“I said that bathroom was too small when we bought the house.”

“That’s not…” Will closed his eyes and drew in his breath through his teeth. “That’s not what we’re arguing about right now.”

Hannibal took another doleful sip of wine. Will reached out and took the glass out of his hands, drank a little himself. It was good - the really expensive stuff someone had given Hannibal when he’d first got the Italian Chair at Beaufort College, Oxford. 

“Fine,” Will said, and turned round to look at his ingredients again, pressing the glass back in Hannibal’s hand. “I’ll just hire someone for the day. Maybe one of those nice builders who helped get this place in - the gay ones? That boy Henry? Oh those arms…”

And then came the growl and the sudden weight against his back, and Hannibal Lecter nosing at his neck, teeth bared, and now there is no distance between them any more. 

Will grins, braces his hands more firmly against the counter-top and pushes back into Hannibal’s warmth, rubbing his ass firmly against Hannibal’s groin, feeling something stir in response. 

“You know, Hannibal, however possessively you fuck me? Those tiles are still going to have to be laid by someone. And it’s not going to be me if you make me…sore.” Will pushes back again with the word, and Hannibal grabs him, spins him round but leaves him still trapped up against the kitchen island. 

One of them sends the glass of Burgundy flying - it smashes against the opposite counter-top and some of the most precious vintage in the world goes flying over the white-painted wall in a wide red stain that looks like something else. 

Will can feel himself getting harder, feels Hannibal doing the same. 

Killing, in previous lives, he always cared too much about. Some complex mixture of guilt and lack of guilt, of attraction and repulsion and that terrible darkening fear that something inside him just wasn’t wired right, was missing, made him less than human, less than whole. 

Now killing is something he does with Hannibal, and Hannibal is something that makes every part of him complete, and it’s easy. 

Easier than cooking, or decorating a house. 

And when they’re in sync, it reminds him of how all the rest is just external trappings - just dressing up. They could burn all this to the ground and leave the town in a river of blood - and perhaps they will - and it wouldn’t matter, if they had each other.

Isn’t true love always, really, underneath, supposed to be that? 

Sometimes Will thinks that thought might have troubled him, once. 

The scent of fresh limes is rising around them as Will leans back, still bracing, and Hannibal goes to his knees and pulls down Will’s loose sweatpants, hooks the elasticated waist under Will’s balls so they stick out, proud and ready for him to lean in and mouth them with his wine-velvet tongue, which he does. 

Will hisses and feels himself get fully hard, his dick twitching and butting up into Hannibal’s face, and Hannibal groans happily and rubs his cheek against the shaft before kneeling up a little to lick at the tip. 

In one movement, Will raises himself on his hands to get himself perched on the counter, raises his legs off the ground and draws his feet in around Hannibal’s shoulders, drawing him up and closer in. 

Hannibal obeys, and brings up a hand to push up under Will’s t-shirt and feel blindly, assuredly, for his scar, and Will’s stomach jumps and quakes and his whole body shudders. 

Then there’s sudden hot wetness enveloping him as Hannibal’s mouth encloses his dick, and the soft swoop down is matched by just the hint of teeth on the slow, indulgent upstroke, and Will realizes he has put his hand in the bowl with the condensed milk.

He complains, moaning, as Hannibal draws back, removing his mouth. 

“Oh what a shame for you,” Hannibal says calmly. “Now you cannot make your so-called ‘pie’.”

“Hannibal Lecter,” Will hisses, “get back here or I swear to God I will tile our bathroom luminous green and fuck knows you won’t risk your nails or your precious nose taking that up.”

“You wish to know what I can do with my nails?” Hannibal is back at him, standing now, bending Will backwards over the island so that now there’s condensed milk and lime zest and sugar and possibly an egg over Will’s back and in his hair. 

Happiness always used to be something Will thought of, in all his life before, as quiet and small and something like a mist, seeping and surrounding but hard to pin down, impossible quite to grasp, never to be sure of. 

Now his world bursts overflowing with it, thick and present and bright with colour. 

Will kisses Hannibal hungrily, and shoves his creamy hand to smear into Hannibal’s hair too.


End file.
